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Winds and life, they are synonymous; coexisting on one plane that is intangible, however they can be felt. Tepid on our skin, frigid to the touch; life is malleable, transforming endlessly to adept to its own unpredictability. When a gale is born, it doesn’t question or does it falter; it flows forward, brushing its wispy tendrils against all in the means of leaving its essence behind. We inherit its genes as it passes by, curling into the sky. As quickly as it is born, the wind dies, but do you think it had time to ponder its life? Do you believe the wind was terrified by the unknown? Unable to cease movement, the wind is truly free. Even in death, the wind lives on within our lungs.